


Simple Tastes

by Aelfay



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M, Mutual Pining, Oscar Wilde is mentioned, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-19
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2019-02-04 11:32:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12770154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aelfay/pseuds/Aelfay
Summary: Holmes learns some new things about Watson's tastes.





	Simple Tastes

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Простые вкусы](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12913566) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



_“I'm a man of simple tastes. I'm always satisfied with the best.”_

_ ― Oscar Wilde _

 

I am fully prepared to account for my tastes, and, like children and Mr. Wilde, I find them simple enough, despite the fact that Watson would no doubt describe them as eccentric. I simply want the best. Ofttimes, the best is cocaine, others, the thrill of a case.  

At all times, Watson is the best of me.

The man himself, of course, would describe himself as easily predictable in his tastes and vices, and yet I challenge any of his readers to actually accompany him and keep that point of view. The placid, amiable homebody currently sitting across from me in his armchair seems entirely incongruous with the man of yesterday, running down a lane behind me in pursuit of a man who had found ingenious ways to use a pocket-knife upon the carving-block of a human body. Watson will light up in the presence of danger, and yet seems equally satisfied with his pipe and note-book now, just as he was satisfied with his practice and his wife several years ago. No-one can accuse me of being contradictory without following the sentence with one acknowledging Watson’s equal culpability in the same regard. 

Regard is a vice of my own, I am afraid. For while my dear Watson is contradictory in many respects, his morals are absolute, and mine, I must confess, are utterly degraded. He would never stay if he knew the myriads of ways my mind can twist our happy partnership to the foulest fantasies.Though one must not presume that all of my regard is physical, no, I simply wish for the best and thus find myself unable to draw a line in idle daydreams in my intense desire to know Watson, inside and out. Of course I am, and will be, content with his mere presence as he hums and puffs his pipe, turning the page of his note-book and making annotations. 

One of the marks of the finest quality is the dearness of the item, and in that case, every piece of Watson is dear, and so one cannot doubt his quality. His hands are sturdy, calloused with use, and yet deft as he wields pencil, pen, scalpel and firearm with equal competency. I will admit to having noted his hands more than one should, as I observe him brush his fingertips down the page. So much of him is covered in cloth and buttons and felt, and thus it is that I have indulged with what I can observe. His hands are often free of gloves indoors, and on fair days in summer and spring-time, and so I have noted them, just as I have noted the curve of his nape and every bristle of his moustache. I wish to know all of him with such intimacy, with more intimacy, even, with touch and taste as well as sight, but I cannot, and so I memorise the weathered lines of his face instead. 

Let it be a testimony to my regard for him, in both senses of the word, that I have turned my back in the Turkish Baths while he is arranging his modesty. It is not entirely my respect for him, but also my own worry that the sight of him bare might act upon my mind as far too much cocaine and leave me unable to breathe again. 

Yes, my tastes are simple. Watson turns the page again, and I am content. He looks up, catching my eye as I set the newspaper aside (a feigned interest to hide my observation), and glances at the front page.  

“Ah,” he says, removing the pipe from between his teeth, and giving it a long glance. “Yes, I read it earlier.”

I look at the newspaper again. I perused its contents earlier as well; Mr Wilde has been arrested. I wonder if anyone would have pity for me, were it my name on the front page. I am certain to school my face. “It is causing quite the disturbance,” is all I reply.

Watson looks up at me, and the lines on his face have changed, now. I scan them despite myself, memorising them, cataloguing them and noting that they look remarkably similar to concern. “Indeed. I have heard Canterbury is quite nice this time of year,” he says, and stands, putting away his note-book in his desk drawer. “Would you consider going with me, do you think?”

I pause, eyes fixed upon his person as he arranges his desk to his liking. He knows, then, or has suspected, for it is obvious in his tone and manner that this is a way to flee the gossip of London for my safety. He surely had no need to accompany me, his late wife having cemented him in the upright station of mankind. And yet he offered me an escape with his presence. 

“Yes,” I say hoarsely, and then clear my throat, attempting to sound unaffected. “But my dear Doctor, your practice will suffer without you. You need not trouble yourself.” I could go alone, of course.

Watson has finished his rearranging, moving toward the stairs in the way he does most nights, his normal evening bed-time routine, but he pauses in the doorway, giving me an inscrutable look. Or I should call it inscrutable, for my eyes tell me it is fond, and that can not be. Except his next words make my heart leap. 

“The practice will keep. I would find the break from my work… liberating. After all,” he pauses and looks at me, and I have the sudden revelation that my dear Watson’s tastes are farther beyond my comprehension than I have allowed, but they are not at all unwelcome. He smiles slightly as a dark flush spreads down my neck and chest, and continues, “You are not the only one who is fond of the Turkish baths, my dear Holmes.”

With that, he goes upstairs. My heart races, and I stare at the fire in silence, breathing. 

Of course I will go to Canterbury with him. 

I only want the best. 

 

 

** Notes:  **

_ It was in the year '95 that a combination of events, into which I need not enter, caused Mr. Sherlock Holmes and myself to spend some weeks in one of our great University towns, and it was during this time that the small but instructive adventure which I am about to relate befell us. _

_  —— Dr. John Watson, The Adventure of the Three Students _

I have set this in 1895, as Oscar Wilde is arrested, and, so far as I can tell, three years after the death of Mary Morstan. 

The quote by Oscar Wilde was not published until 1917 in a volume by Edgar Saltus named “Oscar Wilde: An Idler’s Impression”. Thus, Holmes knowing the quote is a liberty on my part, unless, of course, he had reason to know Wilde on a more personal basis. 

Many thanks to Leslie S. Klinger, and his excellent [Chronological Table of Events.](http://webpages.charter.net/lklinger/Chrotabl.htm)

_Edit: I've gone through and changed a few spelling and grammar mistakes. I lack a beta, so all mistakes are my own._  



End file.
